


Ablaze

by CosmicZombie



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, M/M, Stefanos is an idiot, how did i end up with this?, okay so is Sascha but Stefanos is definitely the bigger idiot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 17:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicZombie/pseuds/CosmicZombie
Summary: Stefanos can't figure out why Sascha Zverev seems to hate him so much.





	Ablaze

**Author's Note:**

> I genuinely have no idea how I ended up writing a fic about these two and their ridiculous rivalry, but I'm going to blame sweetwinegift's [Never Fall In Love With You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16724772) which is basically sold me on this whole ship in the first place. I had lots of fun writing this and I would absolutely LOVE to know what you guys think of it/if you'd like me to write more of this ship. Hope you enjoy <3

The first time Stefanos saw Sascha Zverev play a match was in Madrid. It was a blistering Tuesday afternoon, and the austere glare of the sun burned the back of Stefanos’s neck as he watched, unwillingly enthralled. Zverev moved across the court as fluidly and tempestuously as flames, and Stefanos found himself overwhelmed in a way that reminded him of the awe he’d felt as a child, reading the Greek Histories and trying to comprehend the sheer power of Alexander the Great that was too vast to be contained by pages. There was a fiery intensity to Zverev’s movements and guttural shouts that made Stefanos think of the hazy dust of armoured battle instead of the dry clay court, and when Zverev won match-point, the sound he let out was like a battle cry, blonde curls crowning his head like flames. As the crowd erupted around him and the flashes of hundreds of cameras shimmered in the heat, his power seemed inevitable.

After that, Stefanos watched him play whenever he could. He found that there was something addictive about Zverev’s intent, fiery focus that completely captivated him, and so when Stefanos found out he was to play him in the quarters, he was thrilled. He barely slept the night before, hyped up at the prospect of a match he knew would push him to his limits. Zverev, however, seemed to take against him from the moment they set on court the next day. He fought every point across the net as though it were a personal attack, and instead of the genial smiles and easy charisma Stefanos had seen directed at so many of Zverev’s opponents, all he was met with was a defensive coldness. Stefanos had to try not to be disappointed amidst the wave of his victory when, at the net, Zverev gripped his hands for the minimum few seconds possible, remaining silent and mutinous with no eye contact. Head bowed, he left the court almost immediately without looking back or acknowledging the applause that must have been ringing in his ears.

Stefanos was so focused on watching him go that he forgot he was meant to be giving his victor’s interview, and hastily shoved his stuff into his bag, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. He fumbled his way through the predictable questions, and left the court as soon as he could feeling uncharacteristically overwhelmed. Applause followed him all the way to the locker rooms, whose coolness and quiet hit him like a sigh of relief. However, his respite was short-lived as he realised that Zverev was sitting sullenly on the bench by the lockers. He didn’t look up at Stefanos’s entrance, but towelled his damp hair furiously so that it stood up on end.

Stefanos put his bag awkwardly onto the other end of the bench, feeling uncomfortably aware of the resounding quiet. “Hey,” he offered uneasily into the loaded silence, because he had never been good with leaving things unsaid. “It was a good match,” he told Zverev honestly, because they had been neck and neck for almost the whole three hours and his victory had hinged on a few lucky points and a badly timed double fault from Zverev.

Zverev grunted dismissively and tossed his towel to one side, not looking up and Stefanos felt irritation prickle across his skin. “Have I done something to offend you?” he demanded, never one for beating about the bush. He stared inquiringly at Zverev, whose gaze flickered up briefly to catch his. Stefanos was taken aback at the sudden tumultuous emotion in their moody blue before Zverev dropped his gaze again, seeming unnecessarily focused on the process of tying his shoelaces.

Without looking up, he muttered, “No,” in a monotonous voice. His hair fell into his face as he tied the laces on his other trainer, dark honeyed curls softening the sharp angles of his face.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” Stefanos challenged, feeling the irritation starting to bubble over into anger.

Zverev did look up at this, piercing gaze ice blue and inscrutable, sharp like the edge of a knife. “Do you constantly require validation?”

Stefanos blinked at the open and unprecedented hostility. “No more than you, I’m sure,” he retorted angrily, irritation mounting at the coldness of Zverev’s tone. Zverev didn’t respond to this, but merely stood up, pulling his hood up and his bag over his shoulder and leaving Stefanos standing alone in the locker room with clenched fists and an angrily thudding heart.

-

Stefanos tried to shake their encounter from his head over the next few days, but no matter how much he tried it stayed stuck, making him angrier by its persistence. He didn’t see Zverev again until the end of the week, when they were both training for the quarters. Zverev was practicing in the court next to him and didn’t so much glance in Stefanos’s direction as the latter walked past even though Thiem, who he was hitting with, called out cheerfully in greeting. Trying to shake off the irritation the sight of Zverev’s dark-honey curls and golden medallions brought, Stefanos waved back at Thiem and spent the majority of his own practice trying to serve out his annoyance.

By the time he’d exhausted his anger and his coach had told him to get some rest, the light was starting to fade and the sky had melted into soft pastel pink and burning crimson. Drained, Stefanos swallowed the last of his water and left his court. He was surprised to notice he wasn’t the only one left on the courts this late. Zverev was sitting on the dusty ruby clay of the adjoining court, arms folded round his knees as he stared moodily out across the empty court in front of him. His racquet lay abandoned beside him and there was a large graze on one of his knees still oozing blood. The low golden glow of the setting sun caught his hair, highlighting it gold against the fading colours of the sky and making his eyes glitter as though they were burning.

“You won’t learn how to beat me by sitting on the ground, you know,” Stefanos remarked lightly, leaning against the net and folding his arms. He wasn’t sure why he was talking to Zverev again, but there was something compelling about the German even amidst the irritation he felt towards him. Against Stefanos’s will, Zverev fascinated him. It was like a scab he couldn’t leave alone.

Zverev’s gaze snapped up, full of fire. “I don’t need to learn how to beat you,” he snapped angrily, pushing his tousled fringe out of his eyes. His fingers were dusty with clay and left red streaks through it, as though it was starting to smoulder at the ends.

Stefanos shrugged, spinning his racket round in his hands. “Prove it.”

Zverev made to get up but winced in pain, and fresh blood dribbled down his knee. He gritted his vulpine teeth and pushed himself up determinedly, grabbing his racket from where it lay discarded beside him. He reached into his pocket and tossed a tennis ball to Stefanos, eyes blazing, a challenge. “Come on, then,” he said, and it was quieter than Stefanos would have expected, almost inaudible in the soft sunset.

Stefanos eyed Zverev’s bloodied knee warily, and the way the German stood awkwardly, not putting his full weight on his left side. “You’re injured.”

“I’m fine,” Zverev snapped impatiently, twanging the strings of his racquet. “Are you going to play me or not?” he demanded, eyes blazing in the dwindling light.

Stefanos had been exhausted moments before, and he had a doubles match in less than ten hours that he needed to rest for – but somehow, he found himself crossing the court, blood and adrenaline pounding through his veins as he faced Zverev’s statuesque silhouette against the net. The setting sun framed his tousled golden hair making it look like a crown of fire, and he played as though he was at war, all composure lost. The sounds he made as he hit the ball back at Stefanos over and over again were guttural, fuelled by pain or anger or determination – Stefanos couldn’t tell which. They played furiously an intently as though nothing else existed until the light had drained all the colours from the fire of the sun and the red clay court. Barely able to see anymore, Stefanos hit a spinning volley that landed awkwardly just Zverev’s side of the net, and in his determination to reach it, Zverev went skidding into the ground.

The ball bounced listlessly past him as he let out a frustrated cry, clutching his knee. He didn’t get up but rolled over onto his back, and even across the net Stefanos could see the grit of his jaw. Guilt made his heart sink like a stone as he crossed the court, suddenly noticing how dark it was.

“You are hurt,” Stefanos said quietly, stopping in front of Zverev.

“Obviously,” Zverev spat out, clutching at his knee and glaring up at Stefanos through tangled curls. Blood dribbled between his long pale fingers, mixing with the brittle granules of red clay.

Cautiously, Stefanos knelt down on the dusty clay and unwound his bandana. “Here,” he said, offering it to Zverev. “Until you get back to the locker room. It’ll stop it bleeding.”

Zverev eyed the pink bandana warily for a moment before taking it grudgingly and wincing in pain as he carefully bound his injured knee. “Thanks,” he muttered sullenly, knotting the ends of it deftly with his elegant fingers. Stefanos held out his hand to help him up, and after staring at his outstretched hand for a moment, Zverev reluctantly clasped it and struggled to his feet. Stefanos was surprised by how soft and uncallused his grasp was, chalky with the clay of the court and slightly sticky with blood and sweat. Close up, he could smell the salt of the perspiration that curled Zverev’s dark blonde hair and something a little like the fragrance of crushed almonds or the earth after a rainstorm. It was vaguely familiar from the brief conciliatory handshake that had got under Stefanos’s skin so much, only it didn’t irritate him now.

“Sascha, what are you doing?” Stefanos flinched slightly at the voice which echoed across the court towards them. He looked round to see Zverev’s older brother approaching them. “You’re due in press in ten minutes, Dad’s been looking everywhere for you,” he stopped, registering Stefanos and eyes drifting towards the bandaged knee. “What the hell have you done, Sash?” Zverev’s brother demanded, but there was no anger to the question, only concern. “Domi told me you were going to stop and go to Physio until you were due in press.”

“It’s nothing,” Zverev muttered dully, grabbing his racquet off the ground where he’d dropped it as he skidded to his knees. The uninjured one was still dusted with clay, Stefanos noticed. “I’m fine, Mischa. Let’s just go to press.” Without a backward glance at Stefanos, Zverev limped awkwardly across the court after his brother into the fading light.

Stefanos stared after their retreating figures with a strange mixture of emotion in his chest that he couldn’t define as anything more than _intense_ , his palm still dusty with the clay that had clung to Zverev’s fingers and his heart thudding as though they were still playing.

-

The next day just before his doubles match, Stefanos entered the locker room to find his pink bandana clean and neatly folded on the bench beside his bags. He looked around expectantly, heart suddenly beating faster, but the room was deserted. Scooping up the bandana, he pushed his hair back and tied it around his head before heading out on court, ignoring the unwilling smile that spread across his face.

-

His smile was short lived. Zverev got under his skin like sunburn, and seemed intent on infuriating him whenever they were in each other’s presence – or even when they weren’t – for the rest of the tour. Every other day he seemed to hear of Zverev’s dismissive comments about him in interviews or be subjected to his silent, mutinous glare across the practice courts. They didn’t meet properly again until the semis in Monte Carlo later that season, and Stefano couldn’t shake the feeling that the German had been avoiding him. They’d been staying in the same hotel for the tournament so had been in each other’s vicinity a lot, but not once had Zverev attempted to speak to him as any other player normally would have done. Any time they were left alone together Zverev simply left, usually without excuses or apologies.

Standing in the corridor before they went on, Stefanos found himself more preoccupied with Zverev’s tense expression than the roar of the crowd awaiting them. It was the first time they’d stood this close since he’d helped Zverev of the dusty practice court, and Stefanos couldn’t help noticing how tired the German looked. The angles of his face were sharper than usual as though he’d lost weight, and the usually sharp blue of his gaze was dulled and shadowed with dark circles.

“How’s the knee?” Stefanos asked, feeling the inexplicable urge to break the loaded silence. 

Zverev’s gaze snapped up to meet his, guarded and ice blue. “Fine,” he replied mutinously, jaw set but his eyes searching Stefanos’s as though confused by the question. Before Stefanos could say anything further, they were escorted onto the court to the noise of the crowd.

Neither of them, Stefanos thought, played their best. He found his concentration slipping multiple times over the match, and Zverev seemed to alternate between disjointed nerves and overcompensating anger that resulted in explosive bursts of German. In the end, it was Zverev who managed to break him in the fifth set to go through to the final. Exhausted and suddenly feeling close to smashing his racquet or bursting into tears of frustration, Stefanos crossed the court shakily, trying to school his expression into a neutral one.

When they met at the net, Zverev’s face was set as though he was the one who had just lost in five sets, and the shadows under his eyes were as dark as bruises. He gripped Stefanos’s hand for all of two seconds, jaw set, and then moved away to soak up the applause of the crowd.

-

“Congratulations,” Stefanos said tightly, jaw clenched as soon as Zverev emerged from the showers after his post-match inteview with a towel round his waist, water glistening on the pale, hard muscles of the torso.

Glancing up, Zverev shrugged sullenly, not quite meeting Stefanos’s gaze. “I don’t think such a bad match warrants any congratulations,” he said, dully, “But thanks, I guess,” he added dismissively, grabbing a second towel from the bench and towelling his hair dry.

His defeated tone, combined with Stefanos’s emotional exhaustion after losing in five sets, made the irritation that Zverev had sparked off in him for months suddenly reach breaking point. Anger exploding inside his chest, Stefanos flung his headband down on the bench and stood up. “What is wrong with you?” he shouted, and was gratified to see Zverev jump slightly in surprise, dropping the towel he’d been using to dry his hair. “You have won a match I would have killed to win and yet you act as though you are the one who’s worse off,” Stefanos burst out, the words flowing from his mouth before he was able to register them, “You are so negative, all the time. Instead of just being happy when you beat me you do nothing but criticise me in your press conferences and complain about how bad your form is. Can’t you just be grateful?”

“Why do you care so much to listen to my press conferences?” Zverev asked, folding his arms across his chest and surveying Stefanos with some of the familiar fire that had been uncharacteristically absent during the match building in the ice of his gaze.

“I do not listen to your press conferences,” Stefanos exclaimed angrily. “But it is hard not to know what you have been saying when it is all I am asked about in mine.”

“Your tennis can’t be very interesting if all they ask you about is me,” Zverev shrugged mutinously, and Stefanos saw red. All the stress and intensity of the last five hours, the frustration surrounding Zverev which had been building over the last month, was suddenly too much. Before he could check himself he was shoving Zverev back against the tiled wall, breathing hard. Zverev stumbled back in surprise, but caught Stefanos’s biceps deftly, holding him back as Stefanos struggled angrily against his strong grasp to punch him, hit him – do _something_.

Close up, Zverev’s eyes were almost green, a turbulent jade like the winter ocean, and Stefanos suddenly felt aware that they were almost nose to nose, so close he could feel the moisture still lingering on Zverev’s chest from his shower soaking through his own shirt. Round his bicep, Zverev’s grip seemed to falter, and Stefanos caught a glimpse of something like fear or turmoil in his blue gaze before it flickered shut as though in pain. “Why are you doing this to me?” Zverev asked, very quietly in his faint German accent, without opening his eyes, so close that Stefanos could feel his unsteady breaths against his lips. All the anger seemed to drain out of him as fast as it had overwhelmed as Zverev moved imperceptibly closer, smelling of shower gel and almonds and skin. 

“What am I doing?” Stefanos asked, slowly and equally quietly, suddenly finding that his heart was hammering in his chest. The words seemed to hang in the air between them for several long moments, and then Zverev was crushing his lips to Stefanos’s, his grip around Stefanos’s bicep fierce but also surprisingly tender. His mouth was hot and intent, the hard line of his body pressing Stefanos back against the locker room wall, so close he couldn’t tell whose heartbeat belonged to who. Both were racing as though they were still locked in combat.

Zverev kissed like he played: passionately, fiercely, and with an edge of uncertainty that was touchingly human. Stefanos barely had time to comprehend what was happening before Zverev broke the kiss and let go, eyes wide, bare chest rising and falling rapidly. With his dark blonde curls still wet from the shower and his cheeks flushed uncharacteristically pink, he had never looked younger or less sure of himself, and in that moment Stefanos realised with a jolt how much of his cocksure attitude was put on. Zverev cleared his throat, as though about to speak – but words seemed to fail him at the last moment and he backed away slowly, leaving Stefanos breathing hard against the wall, more confused and turned on than he could remember being in his life.

-

The dawning emotion on Stefanos, after shock, was anger. He felt furious with Zverev for turning everything he thought he knew about him upside down and then disappearing before Stefanos had even had the chance to process it. Dazedly, Stefanos struggled through an hour of press – and as soon as he was free he stormed out into the cool evening air, breathing hard as though he’d just come off the court. It didn’t take him long to find Zverev, who was alone and hitting serves down on the practice courts in the rapidly dwindling lights. Heart thudding maddeningly in his chest, Stefanos marched up to him, anger spilling over the edges so that it felt as inevitable as the rain threatening from the bruised purple evening clouds overhead.

“You kissed me,” he blurted out, breathing hard, and was vindicated by the way Zverev’s face paled as he turned round and saw Stefanos standing there. “You kissed me, and then you ran away.”

“I didn’t,” Zverev mumbled, looking more uncertain than Stefanos had ever seen him. He was staring at his feet instead of Stefanos, and his own fists were clenched around his racquet. His cheeks normally pale cheeks were flushed pink. “I didn’t run.”

“You left,” Stefanos argued, stepping closer, into Zverev’s space. He could smell the salt of his sweat, the familiar smell like crushed almonds which clung to his hair that Stefanos’s bandana had smelled of when Zverev had returned it. “You kissed me, you pressed me up against that locker room wall like you were going to fuck me, and then you ran away.”

“I had a press conference,” Zverev muttered, eyes still not meeting Stefanos’s.

Stefanos let out a huff of frustration. “A press conference?” he demanded incredulously, snorting with derisive laughter. “Is that really the best excuse you can come up with? Because if it is I don’t think I can be bothered with any of this,” Stefanos said angrily, taking a step back, “Whatever the hell – _this_ – is. Life is too short.”

“Wait –” Zverev reached out, catching his wrist, eyes finally meeting Stefanos’s, vulnerable and blue in the fading evening light. “I –” he stopped, swallowing. His expression was more open than Stefanos had seen it before, the moodiness replaced with uncertainty. He opened his mouth then closed it again, and shook his head, releasing his grip on Stefanos’s wrist. “Sorry.”

“Are you apologising for kissing me or for running away?” Stefanos demanded, refusing to be denied an explanation a second time.

Zverev’s eyes flashed briefly with humiliation and anger, jaw set stubbornly. “I didn’t run away.”

“Then you’re apologising for kissing me,” Stefanos surmised blankly. He wasn’t sure why the prospect made his heart sink in his chest.

“No –” Zverev broke off, jaw gritted. “I’m apologising – or trying to, if you’d shut up long enough to let me – for all of it,” he finished, humbly. He looked embarrassed, not quite meeting Stefanos’s gaze. He sighed, reached a hand up and rumpled his already tousled hair. “I couldn’t get you out of my head since that first match. I tried, but I –” his voice faltered, “I just couldn’t.” 

Stefanos stared at him, heart racing as he stepped imperceptibly closer, into Zverev’s space. “Me neither,” he admitted, his voice quiet in the proximity between them. “Not since the first time I saw you play.”

Zverev let out a shaky breath that was somewhere between relief and anticipation. He shifted slightly on his feet for a second, head bowed, before his gaze flickered down to meet Stefanos’s. There was a heat to it so distinctive it made Stefanos wonder how he could have missed it before, how he could possibly ever have mistaken it for disinterest. “Can I kiss you again?” Zverev asked, quietly, his voice low.

“As long as you finish it, this time,” Stefanos grinned, even though his heart was pounding so fast his knees felt weak. He could smell the salt on Zverev’s skin, close and heady.

Zverev’s gaze flashed with irritation. “I told you –” he started, but before he could finish Stefanos leaned up and kissed him, sliding his hands up into Zverev’s golden curls and crushing their bodies together. Zverev let out a low sound against his lips and cupped Stefanos’s jaw, tugging him gently closer, mouth hot and intent, making desire unfurl like flames in the pit of Stefanos's stomach. As they kissed Stefanos wondered why they hadn’t been doing this all along, how he hadn’t realised this was what he’d _wanted_ to do all along, right from the moment he’d first seen Zverev flying across the court as though he were on fire. Kissing Zverev was even more enthralling than watching him play. Stefanos couldn't get enough of it: the soft heat of Zverev's mouth, the hot, hard line of Zverev's body pressed up against his, the soft sounds Zverev let out as they both gave in to what they'd been fighting since their very first meeting. It was intoxicating, compelling, as consuming as the irritation which Stefanos had mistaken it for. 

For a long time they stood there together, on a practice court almost identical to the one they'd fought each other on only weeks before, just wrapped in the fading summer light and each other. 


End file.
